


How to Win Affection Without Really Trying

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Tower, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morbid thoughts, Near Death Experiences, Tony POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: Tony almost dies saving Steve’s life, but that’s just part of being an Avenger. It’s no reason for Steve to get all weird and intense around him afterward.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 184
Kudos: 1277





	How to Win Affection Without Really Trying

When Tony first started out as Iron Man, Pepper said that it’d get him killed. He didn’t disagree at the time, and continued to not disagree as he pursued his new path to its ever-expanding potential. Simply put, there’s no defending it or excusing it – that risk is the reality of putting on the suits.

There have been close calls over the years. Stane, Killian and the Battle of New York are but a few, and each could lead the handful of chapters in Tony’s hypothetical memoirs: ‘Close Shaves & Nicks in Time’.

Tony’s fine with this. As long as he’s alive and of sound mind, he works. As long as the Avengers are in each other’s orbits for significant amounts of time, he works with them. As long as threats come to their neck of the woods, he looks ‘em straight in the eye and goes for the metaphorical headbutt.

Tony knows – believes – that he survived in Afghanistan for a reason. He will die eventually, and hopefully after he’s done as much as he can to make the world a safer place. Chances are high that said death will happen in a fight, and if so, Tony had hoped that it would be a death that counts.

Dying to save Cap’s life is a pretty decent way to go.

It’s not _ideal_ , because Tony’s ideal death would be in a direct attempt to save a city or, perhaps, the world. (He’s glad he survived sending the nuke through the portal, but that was a tailor-made good death.) But saving Rogers, and thus making sure that the good Captain lives on to lead the Avengers, is a pretty damn good cause.

In the split half-seconds of decisions and movement, Tony makes his move. He flies in and, with JARVIS guiding him, takes the weight of the collapsing hellicarrier knock-off against his back. Tony grunts at the suit-mediated impact to his back, which sends him pitching forward until his boots stabilize. On the floor in front of him, Rogers scrambles for his shield.

“The hell, Tony,” Rogers hisses into his comms. “ _That’s_ your move?”

The base is collapsing around them, and the ship itself careening over them in a scream of metal. Rogers’s lower leg is trapped in an opening, and Tony had a few choices: grab Rogers before the ship fell on him (no go without doing serious damage to his leg), grab the shield and send it to Rogers so he can free himself (not enough time, and both of them would’ve gotten crushed), or this very thing he’s done, which buys Rogers time to grab the shield himself.

“There’s an opening on your eleven o’clock.” Tony holds his hands out, and the repulsors help the rockets of his boots in keeping the ship up. A wireframe view of the ship and its potential impact fills the left side of the HUD. Tony considers and discards the possibility of cutting through it with a laser.

“I know,” Rogers says, muscles in his neck straining as his fingers scrape the edge of the shield. “Thor? We could use that assist now.”

“ _Suit integrity at 75 per cent_ ,” JARVIS says. Tony grits his teeth as the weight presses him forward, eating inches of the space he’s holding up for Steve.

“Tony,” Rogers says. “Can you – magnets? To get the shield?”

“All my power’s on the repulsors, I can’t—”

“ _62 per cent_.”

Rogers can’t hear JARVIS, but he seems to know that the armor is seconds away from breaking apart. He roars when he finally gets hold of the shield and, powering through his very broken arm, starts smashing at the metal to free his leg. There’s franticness in his motions that Tony’s never seen before, and that, more than JARVIS’s intoning in his ear, drives home that he’s not going to make it.

“ _55 per cent_.”

“You get to that opening.” Tony’s back and legs feel like they’re about the give, but he feels calm. Steady. Even when he falls forward, the armor’s locking up will create a pocket just wide enough for Rogers to get to safety. “Steve?”

“I’m almost there!” Rogers barks.

“Steve, it’s okay.” Compelled by a need that Rogers not misunderstand him this one time, Tony sends the faceplate up. He lets Steve see his face, and the truth of his determination to do this. Steve freezes at the motion, and his eyes are wide through the cowl when he looks up at Tony.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” Tony says. “You get to that opening.”

“ _Sir, we’re at critical_.”

Tony brings the faceplate down, just as he feels the first splinter across the armor’s left shoulder. In the second before he blacks out, he sees Steve jerk free and roll backward into the opening in the roof, and hopefully to safety.

 _Good_ , Tony thinks. _At least it’s not a waste._

+

Tony wakes up. This is good, in the sense that he still has time to do more, but it is bad, in the sense that he has a world of pain awaiting him once the good drugs wear off.

“Cold,” Tony hears himself say. “Turn it off.”

There’s movement nearby, and another layer of warmth settles on top of him.

It takes a few instances of drifting in and out of consciousness before Tony registers that he’s in Dr. Cho’s ward in the Avengers tower. He recognizes the smell of her cradle, for its slight ozone-like burn is distinct. It eventually trickles into Tony’s brain that the cradle was not ready for extensive use at their last test. This means that his injuries are not that serious, or the brain twins have been hard at work.

Tony opens his eyes and, through the groggy haze, confirms his location. He can’t feel anything from his mid-chest downwards, but that’s not cause for alarm yet.

“Uh,” Tony says.

Dr. Cho arrives, and her impeccably professional bedside manner is its own comfort. She lists out his injuries and broken bones, the knitting and rebuilding that her team had to do, the limits of the cradle itself, and the expected recovery process on top.

Tony sighs. “I’ve heard this song before.”

“I’m still going to tell you what you’re going to do,” Dr. Cho says. “And you’re going to listen.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Steve’s also in the room. Tony doesn’t notice him at first, until Dr. Cho asks him to fetch something and the mostly-blue blur in the corner stands up and solidifies into the shape of Steve. Tony watches the guy go with a vague feeling of _uh-oh_ , as if Tony’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to do, but the only thing he can remember doing lately is not die.

“The lattice is still experimental,” Dr. Cho says. “So no heavy lifting. That includes the suits.”

“Only means I can’t _wear_ the suits, right?” Tony says. “Not that I can’t use them.”

Steve returns to hand a checklist to Dr. Cho. “Yes,” he says, “you can use the remote controls for the suits, but only within the tower. And that means the _suits_ stay inside the tower, too, not just yourself.”

Tony’s grogginess means that he doesn’t immediately come up with a loophole. “All right.”

Dr. Cho fusses over him some more, but she’s probably not saying anything important. It’s hard to focus, or even think properly. Whenever doped up like this, Tony’s head feels empty, as though most of his thoughts have been drained away and are sloshing loose out in the ether where he can’t reach them. It’s frustrating, and made worse when he doesn’t have the ability to properly understand _why_ he’s frustrated.

“I hate this part,” Tony mutters.

“The lying down and wait?” Steve says.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to bring something for you?”

Tony blinks. Dr. Cho’s gone, not that he’d noticed. Steve’s still here, though, and Tony’s feeling more of that mild dread for no real reason that he can grasp. Maybe it’s because although they’re been making decent headway at being teammates and maybe-friends these past months, any interaction they have still has a 50% chance of involving guilt or defensiveness in some way (the percentage pops into Tony’s head easily, but not the context around it) so Tony’s automatically bracing for whatever it is that Steve’s about to lob his way.

Because he’s definitely about to lob something Tony’s way. Tony’s reasonably certain of it, though at the moment he’s not sure why he’s certain.

“Chili fries and a hot dog,” Tony says.

“Can’t pump that through an IV,” Steve replies.

Tony squints down at himself. Oh look at that, he’s in scrubs, and under a blanket, and there’s an IV poking out of his wrist. 

“You want a Rhodey instead?” Steve says.

Tony gasps. “I get a Rhodey?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Cool.” Tony feels himself relax for all of four seconds before the anxiousness ramps up again. “Wait, why’s Rhodey coming?”

“Cause a ship fell on you.”

“Ouch. That sounds un-fun.”

“I agree with you there.”

“Wow, you agree with me.” Another thought tries to land on the foggy plains of Tony’s consciousness, but it can’t quite make it. Steve’s sitting by the bed now, and Tony notes that he’s not in his tactical suit, but in one of those shirts that makes it look like he’s cosplaying as a Captain America who’s cosplaying as a regular citizen. “Did the doc say anything important? Something something heavy lifting.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll go through it again later.” Steve turns, looking at something just out of Tony’s vision. “Hey.”

Curious, Tony tries to sit up, but is stopped by two pairs of hands – Steve, and now Rhodey. Tony’s face breaks into a grin, until Rhodey sits down and another sense of wrongness makes itself known. “Shit, I’m in trouble,” Tony says.

“What’s with you these days that you think I only come around when you’re in trouble?” Rhodey says. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Tony echoes, while the man himself starts to leave the room. Steve pauses at the threshold to look back; Tony returns the gaze, still waiting for something he can’t put his finger on, but Steve just nods and disappears out into the hallway.

+

It takes a couple of hours for Tony’s brain to clear and the true ennui of recovery to make itself known. Other people who are not Rhodey visit during this time: Natasha, Bruce, and even Clint and Thor who most cruelly taunt him with caffeine and sugared goods. Steve peeks his head in once, in the evening when Tony’s watching a show with Natasha, but that’s about all Tony sees of him.

Sleep is awful.

Then it’s the next morning. When Tony wakes up, he’s conscious for what feels like at most ten minutes when Steve arrives. Their jolly captain marches in, annoyingly crisp and alert. He says, “You want some breakfast?”

“Only if there’s coffee,” Tony grumbles.

“Decaf,” Steve says. “That’s all I can offer.”

Tony blinks. He’s not awake enough for this, but at least he’s more awake than yesterday, and knows precisely why he should be wary of Steve. “Pretty sure Helen won’t go for that.”

“I’ll ask nicely,” Steve says. “And we can get you out of here.”

This is a trap. The cradle did its work and Tony won’t need crutches, but there’s got to be at least one more day of observation before Dr. Cho will give him the clear. Not that Tony will necessarily _obey_ , but he does want to get back in the saddle as soon as possible, and cooperating the absolute minimum amount usually makes that happen.

“Why are you offering at all?” Tony asks.

“Because you’re going to get bored, and I trust you not to push yourself while you’re recovering.”

Tony narrows his eyes. He’s not being subtle about his suspiciousness at all, which just makes Steve’s bland, patient expression in return seem all the more alarming.

“Okay,” Tony says, more out of curiosity on what Steve will do next than anything else.

Steve talks to Dr. Cho. Tony doesn’t hear most of it, aside from Dr. Cho’s really loud sighs, but Steve returns to the room with a wheelchair and a smile.

Tony balks at the wheelchair. This just makes Steve’s smile widen, and the challenge in it is abruptly clear.

So that’s what it is. Steve’s in charge and he’s going to bully Tony all the way to recovery. Tony remembers what he’d forgotten yesterday in the drug-induced haze, which is that this is Tony’s penance for saving Steve’s life, because neither of them are normal human beings who say _thank you_ and _you’re welcome_. (Though Tony would probably break out in hives if Steve tried to say thank you.) The fragmented, adrenaline-enhanced memory Tony has of Steve’s eyes, made wide in fear as he realized what was going to happen, has been overlaid with the present reality of Steve’s even gaze that now dares Tony to make a choice, because it _is_ his choice.

“Whatever,” Tony mutters. “I want out of here.”

Tony fumbles in his attempt to rise, but tenses up when Steve approaches to help. As teammates they may have seen each other at various levels of injury, but it’s unnerving for there to be just the two of them, sans the padding of the rest of the team, and for Steve to not have a scratch on him while Tony can’t even sit up by himself.

The general disparity has always made Tony nervous, deep inside. He’s brains and funding, but he’s also the most breakable of everyone here, and it’s only in compensating to the maximum of his abilities does he make his place in the Avengers unquestionable. He wouldn’t necessarily fight to stay an Avenger, and being a team-player still takes some getting used to, but _damn_ he can cover so much more ground when he has back-up. He wants to be here, and he hates anything that makes him feel that he has to prove that he _should_ be here.

Such as this, where ‘this’ is fuckin’ Steve Rogers pushing a wheelchair up to his bed.

Steve seems to notice Tony’s discomfort, because he says, “Do you want me to call Helen? To help you get up?”

Is that worse? If Tony asks for Dr. Cho, he’d almost be making a statement about Steve. Sure, it’d be less stressful if Bruce were here, or even Natasha, but there’s nothing _wrong_ with Steve per se. They’ve moved past those early, awful days of being unable to do anything but get under each other’s skin, and Tony thinks Steve might even like hanging out with him sometimes. It’s not (entirely) Steve’s fault that Tony’s baggage has baggage.

“I can get a pretty nurse to help,” Steve suggests.

“Stop being an ass and do it properly.” Tony throws one arm out, as imperiously as he can, and grits his teeth when Steve’s hands land on him to help.

Tony feels as if he’s wearing one of his suits that has all its hydraulics broken. He groans all the way through getting the IV out and moving into the wheelchair, figuring that if he’s dramatic enough it’ll keep him from being embarrassed. Steve says nothing, and is fully focused on the task of getting Tony seated and secure, and then putting a pair of slippers on his feet.

“Where’d you get those?” Tony says.

“Bruce, but I didn’t ask where he got them from,” Steve says. “They are yours, right?”

“Yeah.” Tony scowls at his toes, and determinedly tries to wiggle feeling back into them. According to Dr. Cho, the lattice was built into his left side, from where the armor first splintered and right down to his knee, luckily bypassing his spine. That side does feel a little numb, but that he has sensation at all is excellent. “Okay, we can go.”

Steve wheels Tony out of medical. He goes an even speed, not too fast to make Tony dizzy but not too slow to be annoying. He doesn’t talk much, which is good because Tony isn’t in the mood for it.

The whole way up, Tony wonders if Steve’s going to talk about the mission. Tony’d missed the usual post-mortem, though he thinks he got most of it covered through discussion with Bruce and Natasha, while he can catch up with the rest via the mission report (or JARVIS’s CliffsNotes on said mission report). Tony braces for Steve to bring it up, anyway.

Tony is so focused on this that he doesn’t really register where they’re going until the elevator opens on his workshop floor, as opposed to his personal floor. He blinks in surprise as the screens light up and DUM-E peers over a bench and chirps a greeting.

“Do you want to go to the couch?” Steve looks down at Tony and starts. “Oh, did you want to go to your room? I thought maybe you’d be tired from lying down.”

“I am,” Tony says slowly. “Still want to brush my teeth, though. Plus the coffee. You said there would be coffee.”

“I did.” Steve wheels Tony to the workshop’s connecting bathroom and marches off, efficiency in every step, to collect a pair of stepladders that he arranges so that Tony can stand at the sink on his own. Once that’s done, Steve scrutinizes the set-up with a scowl before nodding. “I’m going to get your breakfast. You can handle it from here?”

“Yep,” Tony says.

“DUM-E, U, watch out for him, would you? Thanks.”

Tony stares as Steve turns to leave, and is still staring as he disappears into the elevator.

At long last Tony turns to the bathroom, which is a very different kind of intimidating. He definitely prefers doing this part alone, so that’s good. And if he takes his time (which he has to, anyway) then when he’s finally done Steve will probably have delivered breakfast and be long gone on his merry way.

And Tony will have some peace and quiet.

+

Steve doesn’t go on his merry way.

He _does_ come back with breakfast and a change of clothes (“These are easier to change into,” he says) and then stays. He helps Tony out of the bathroom and to the coffee table, which Steve has set up as a mini workbench of sorts. That makes sense, because Tony can’t use his regular benches, and it’s useful to have some things within easy reach, but there’s really no cause for Steve to also bring a breakfast on a tray that he sets across Tony’s lap, and sit down at the other end of the couch with his own breakfast.

They eat. Tony has JARVIS to bring up a screen and play the morning news. Steve even watches the news between eating his stacked sandwich and grapefruit.

Tony doesn’t have much of an appetite, but he does get some dry toast down in between the (not too bad) decaf. When Tony shifts restlessly, Steve removes the tray and puts it on the side bench, leaving the coffee table free for Tony’s workspace use.

Steve, meanwhile, settles back in his corner of the couch and pulls out his phone.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Tony asks.

“No,” Steve says, which is such a lie that Tony almost laughs. “Honestly, I thought you’d be game to order me around for once.”

Tony stares at him.

Steve stares back, oozing honesty from every earnest, invisible pore.

“So if I want more cushions…” Tony says.

“For your back or to prop up your legs?”

“Mmm. Both?”

“All right.” Steve stands up. He takes Tony’s breakfast tray with him when he goes, and when he does return a half hour later he brings a goddamned box with him, filled with cushions, comforters and blankets, i.e. he’s giving Tony _options._ He arranges them per Tony’s instructions.

“I need a physical keypad,” Tony says. “It should be over there, could you—”

Steve gets the keypad. He also gets Tony a refill, but only one because that’s all he allowed for the next few hours, and then a bag each of pretzels, beef jerky and dried blueberries, which he arranges in a little snack pile next to Tony’s haphazard new workstation. Steve also, at Tony’s behest, folds a blanket and arranges it behind Tony’s neck, for support.

“You can only have two screens,” Steve says.

“Only two?”

“JARVIS?” Steve says.

“ _Noted, Captain_.”

“I need my tunes, though,” Tony grumbles. “I can’t think without them.”

“Of course.”

“And I need some water. In my 270 mug.”

“I’ll put it in a plastic tumbler, your mugs are too heavy.”

“I can lift a mug!” Tony sighs loudly when Steve fetches a tumbler just as threatened.

It’s almost like they’re in a classic sitcom, where good intentions will get pushed to the limits for shits ‘n giggles, though in Tony’s case he’s not using a physical bell to ostentatiously ring for Steve’s attention.

For now, though, Steve’s doing everything asked of him with neutral efficiency. He’s not fussing about with eagerness, but neither is there a begrudging inch in Steve’s body. Tony asks, Steve does – simply and efficiently. In between the asking and the doing, Steve fiddles with his phone or eats something.

It’s obviously a reverse psychology ploy. Steve wants to make sure that Tony’s taking care of himself, and if he dresses it up in a way that’s socially acceptable to them both, then it gets done. Steve’s still the bossy, self-righteous person that he’s always been; it’s just that he’s gotten good at being underhanded to get what he wants.

Tony sees right through him, oh yes.

Fine. If Steve wants to play it that way, then Tony will roll with it.

“Steve,” Tony says.

Steve looks up from his apple. “Yeah?”

“I want to build something. You be my hands.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

+

It’s the weirdest fucking day.

They build – technically, _fail_ to build – the experimental transmitter that Tony’s been sketching over the past few weeks, but that’s okay because it was experimental to begin with, and Steve can’t be faulted for not being able to do precise wirework. Tony has him tidy up the workshop instead, sorting equipment and works in progress into places that Tony will hopefully be able to find afterward.

For a change of pace, Bruce comes over to spend lunch with Tony, and Steve leaves them to it. After lunch, Bruce toddles off to science or whatever hobby of the week he has now, and Tony has a nap. When Tony wakes up, Steve’s back in the workshop, though he’s sitting on a stool because Tony’s stretched out on the couch.

“Helen wants a check-up,” Steve says, while Tony yawns and slowly sits up. “You want to go there, or shall I ask her to come here?”

“Oh, so she does house-calls?”

“She’s been known to make exceptions.”

“Yeah.” Tony considers the long walk and sighs. “Can you call her in?”

Steve does just that, using his cellphone. Tony watches him from the corner of his eye as he experimentally stretches his arms and legs, and has a sudden flash to Pepper similarly making calls for him because he’s too lazy to.

But Steve isn’t Pepper. Steve isn’t here doing all of this because he’s being paid; he’s here because he has an agenda and thinks he can bluff his way through it. The thought of Steve as a PA is kind of amusing, though he’d be terrible at it for so many reasons, among them being that he’s more opinionated and less patient than Pepper.

Less patient in _general_ , though. He’s certainly patient enough to have tolerated Tony for most of the day.

Not long after Steve’s call, Dr. Cho drops by and looks Tony over. She’s brought more painkillers, which she gives Steve to handle, and tells Tony that tomorrow he should start walking around more but still do no heavy lifting. Tony makes some vague complaints, just because he can.

“Do you want to watch something?” Tony says, once Dr. Cho’s left. “Brain’s kinda futzy.”

“By which you mean, you’ll let _one_ of your screens play a movie while you work on the other one?”

“Exactly.”

They watch a movie. It’s JARVIS’s pick, and is a sci-fi venture that’s honestly not very good but is slick in its design. Steve doesn’t talk much through it, but he usually doesn’t during team movie viewings, as he’s more the sort who offers commentary once the show’s over. Tony could offer his own commentary, but he’s still kinda tired, and is only doing minor tinkering on his workscreen so that his brain doesn’t turn into mush. He knows from experience that if he lets that happen, he’s going to sleep badly.

“What do you like, though?” Tony says suddenly.

“Hmm, what?”

“What do you like to watch?” Tony realizes that he doesn’t know, and has never asked. Steve’s enjoyed almost everything the team’s made him watch during group nights, so there’s no data for Tony to work with.

“I’ll try anything, really.”

“But what do you _like_?”

Steve has to think about it, which is oddly unsettling. “I like happy endings, I suppose. Or satisfying endings, which aren’t necessarily happy, but which are emotionally fitting. I think.”

“You think,” Tony echoes.

Steve shrugs. He seems a little embarrassed, which wasn’t Tony’s intention. Tony feels a flash of annoyance – at himself or at Steve, it’s hard to tell. “You like stories that bring you on a journey that, looking back, you don’t regret taking.”

“Oh. Yes, that’s a nice way to put it. I’m going to borrow that.”

“You’re welcome.”

Steve smiles, a quick pull of his mouth that softens his eyes. Tony doesn’t see it often, and in the sudden, surprised quiet of his head wonders what else he can ask Steve about himself. A whole lot, actually, since there’s a lot that he doesn’t know. Or ever wanted to know.

That sounds bad, but people don’t need to be very close in order to get along. He and Steve have been doing really well these past few months, and have found a new rhythm that relies on the intersecting relationships within the team. Their shared goal was enough to keep them together, and having each other’s back as they face outsider threads.

Steve mainly hangs out with Natasha; Tony mainly hangs out with Bruce; Thor and Clint crossover where necessary. Tony and Steve need to know each other _just_ enough for the whole arrangement to make sense.

That’s what works, obviously.

Steve rises to his feet. “I’m going to see to dinner.”

Tony starts to say that there’s no need, but realizes that he is actually starting to get hungry. As soon as he thinks that he feels guilty, and then feels weird for feeling guilty because it’s not as though he’s _forcing_ Steve to be his babysitter.

“Is there anything specific you want?” Steve asks. “How ‘bout that chili fries and a hot dog?”

“The what? Did I say that? Not for dinner. Surprise me, I guess? No, wait, don’t.”

“I’ll let you know what I find in the kitchen.”

“Good idea.”

Steve goes off, and sends a message to Tony that Clint cooked enough paella for everyone, so that’s dinner covered. Tony doesn’t feel like leaving the workshop so he sends a message in reply that he’ll eat where he is. Tony would’ve been okay if Steve ate with the others, but Steve still returns to the workshop with enough for two, and they eat together at the coffee table.

As before, they don’t talk much, and there’s no expectation that anyone fill the silence. Steve goes back to reading on his phone, and Tony fiddles with his work. Even so, Tony doesn’t think he’s ever spent this much time with Steve continuously, even counting missions.

At least Steve must be satisfied that he’s made sure that Tony’s taking it easy. He’s had a quiet day in the workshop with minimal labor, and all meals and comforts have been brought to him. At the end of it Steve even sends Tony to his room using the wheelchair. (Tony _can_ walk, but he’s feeling lazy, so whatever.)

Overall, yes, it’s weirdest fucking day. That said, as Tony settles underneath his blanket to go to sleep, he realizes that he maybe sorta kinda liked some parts of it. Maybe.

At least tomorrow things will go back to normal.

+

In the morning, once Tony bothers to get up, he hobbles in and out of the bathroom and spends an eternity getting into some clothes. He’s understandably extra cranky when he leaves the room, and is totally not expecting for Steve to be waiting outside in the hallway.

“Fuck!” Tony exclaims. “How are you doing that!”

“Oh!” Steve looks surprised, and then confused that Tony had to ask. “I asked JARVIS to tell me when you’re up.”

“Geez.” Tony rubs his chest. “You don’t have to. Really, it’s fine.”

Steve rolls his eyes, which makes Tony’s stomach go funny for a second. “Do you want breakfast in the workshop or—”

“Pantry. Change of scenery.”

“All right.”

They go down together. The whole time Tony tries not to notice Steve’s staying close and half a step behind, just in case Tony loses his balance. Which he doesn’t, thank goodness.

Thor’s in the dining area by himself, and he perks up at their arrival. “Stark! It’s good to see you recovered.”

“Backatcha.” Tony takes a seat, while Steve goes to the counter to sort through breakfast – two plates, two bowls, two glasses, et cetera. Thor is happily demolishing a stack of French toast, and Tony waves away his offer of a slice. “How are you doing?”

“As well as can be,” Thor says. “Though now you’re here, I must apologize for not being faster in responding—”

“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly. “No harm done.”

Thor’s eyebrows jump up. “On the contrary, you were—”

“Thor, it’s okay.” Steve pats Thor’s shoulder as he passes. “All of us did what we could.”

“Indeed,” Thor says slowly. He watches as Steve puts breakfast and coffee (still decaf) in front of Tony before taking a seat for himself. “I suppose I’ll go see Romanoff later. She had some leads to work on, or something of the sort.”

“Sounds good,” Steve says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Of course.”

Tony’s appetite is definitely returning, but his fine motor-skills in his left hand are far from ideal. He half-listens as Thor explains what he’s been doing the last few days, and Steve replies with interest and remarks of his own.

“The doctor asked me to move the suit remains from her floor,” Thor says. “I put them in the shared lab – Banner said he was fine with it. I can move them elsewhere, if need be?”

“We can leave it there for now,” Steve says.

“What remains?” Tony says.

“Your suit,” Thor says. “From when we had to cut it off you. Unfortunately most of the opening mechanisms no longer worked.”

“Right.” Of course they had to do that. Tony figured as much, though he hadn’t spared a thought on the specifics: who did it, how and when. He can’t imagine Thor doing it, for fear of doing greater damage. Bruce and Natasha are likely, Clint and Steve are possible. They probably did it after returning to the tower, or maybe even took a chance during the trip if Bruce was confident that they wouldn’t make anything worse. There are some tools on the Quinjet that could have been used, but it would’ve been safer to return to the tower and let Dr. Cho take charge.

Tony steals a glance at Steve, who’s hard at work chewing on an apple. There’s nothing to be read off his face.

Then Thor leaves, and there’s just the two of them again.

“Do you want to work on the transmitter?” Steve says. “I’m better prepared now.”

“You’re—what?”

“I did some reading, on the tools you use. I won’t be able to do very precise work, but it should be easier for you to instruct me.”

“But… reading? When?”

“I did have some time for that yesterday,” Steve points out. “You were there.”

Tony would normally snort at Steve’s bland sarcasm, but the queasiness in his stomach is back, and is worse than before. The image is solidly in his head now, of Steve helping get Tony out of the broken suit (a very fucking high possibility, because there’s no way he _wouldn’t_ have done something if he could, because he’s Steve) and got to see the damage himself and… well.

“Look,” Tony says with a sigh, “I get why you’re doing this. But just because I almost died—”

Steve flinches.

It’s so brief, and Steve’s resting polite face is so intense that it’d be difficult to spot unless one knows the minutiae of Steve Rogers’ expressions (which is especially important in order to neutralize or defer conflict because the guy only knows to suppress before he explodes). Tony sees it, and recognizes it because it’s familiar. Tony’s been there.

Sure, Steve’s been annoying with this – whatever it is he’s been doing since yesterday – but Tony can’t be that big of an asshole to let him take on a greater share of guilt than is right. Especially not to the point that he’s doing _homework_. That’s a line too far, somehow.

“You don’t need to feel bad,” Tony says. “I would’ve done it for any of the others.” That’s mostly true. Definitely true for Bruce, and very likely to be true for the others. The general policy is sound, anyway. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not special.”

Tony’s not sure what response he expected from Steve, but it’s definitely not another smile, small and precious.

“I know.” Steve’s eyes are clear, as though none of what Tony’s saying is a surprise. “That’s just what you do.”

“Yes?” Tony says uncertainly, because if he’s tooting his own horn, he’d rather be aware that that’s what he’s doing. “I mean, it’s just part of the job description, yeah? You don’t owe me a debt or whatever else you’re thinking it is.”

“I don’t think in terms of debt. You just made a choice. You’ve made it before, I do remember.”

“So what?” Tony says, automatically testy. “You’ve made that choice, too. More than once!”

“Exactly. That’s all it is, a choice.” The satisfied glint in Steve’s eye is so incomprehensible that Tony has to cover up his confusion by finishing off his coffee. After that last bit of bewildering zen, Steve says, “So are we going to do the transmitter or not? I’m just hoping that I didn’t do all of that reading for nothing.”

“Quit it,” Tony snaps.

“I figure it’s like painting. I just need to get used to the applied pressure—”

“Fine! Fine.” Tony puts his coffee cup down with a loud clatter. “You want to be my Igor, we’ll have at it. If you get bored it’s not my fault.”

“I won’t get bored.”

“Ooh, famous last words.”

Tony fumes through the remains of breakfast, and decides that if Steve wants to be taken advantage of then that’s his own problem. Tony didn’t save Steve’s life because he wanted something in return; he said as much and Steve understands as much, so whatever else is going on is just Steve being weird on his own dime, and Tony is not going to feel bad about that.

Or even think about it too closely at all.

+

Steve is really good at taking instructions. He doesn’t always get things right, but he listens and corrects and snipes back at Tony whenever he gets extra finicky. They make their way through a third of Tony’s sketched blueprints before switching to tinkering with the workshop servers, and it turns out that Steve was completely wrong when he said that he can’t do precision work.

It’s a pretty solid couple of hours. Tony isn’t bored at all, and Steve seems genuinely interested in everything he’s doing.

They take a break for lunch, with Steve eating elsewhere and Tony spending it with Dr. Cho as a two-fer for his daily check-up.

Later in the afternoon Steve comes back to the workshop, hauling with him the remains of the broken suit. He arranges the pieces on a large spread of tarp as per Tony’s instructions. Tony will, of course, use the data in planning the next suits, for strength and modularity.

They spend some time going through the chunks, with Steve sorting and showing them to Tony as he asks. Steve seems perfectly fine with handling the chest and shoulder pieces that are cracked right through, so there’s no reason for Tony to nervously watch Steve’s face for any sign of discomfort.

Steve’s a soldier for fuck’s sake. He’s seen and lived far worse, no matter how much he seems untouched by it all. ( _Seems_. Because people think the same thing about Tony, don’t they?)

“Do you, um.” Tony pauses, unsure if this is the kind of thing they can talk about. But Steve’s looking at him openly, and his calmness is a welcome. “Does it pop into your head sometimes? Flashes of the times you thought you were going to die?”

“Oh yes,” Steve says. “But not all of them. The big one – the Valkyrie. It’s that, mostly.”

“Yeah that makes sense. It’s the same for me. Not that…” Tony clears his throat. “I literally almost got pancaked a few days ago, but that’s just… Thursday. I barely remember what happened. But the Chitauri portal, that was over a year ago and sometimes it feels like it only happened yesterday.”

“The threat you saw through the portal?”

“It’s more – the universe is vast and unknowable. Oh and there’s falling.”

“Falling forever.” Steve nods. “I wake myself up with that sometimes.”

“No way.” Tony grimaces, but Steve doesn’t seem offended. “I mean – you jump out of planes. You’re not afraid of falling.”

“A jump is a controlled fall. My trajectory, my choice. I’m in charge.”

“Oh.” Tony nods. “As opposed to a crash.”

“Exactly.”

They resume working for a while, until Tony says, “We had that crash, a few weeks ago. In the Quinjet.”

“I compartmentalize,” Steve says. “Focus on other people, instead of myself. It helps.”

“Dude, same.”

“That’s why we keep doing what we do, isn’t it? At the end of the day.” Steve’s sitting on the floor, meaning that he has to look up at Tony as they work. He seems… not content, exactly, but peaceful, where said peacefulness bleeds right back at Tony. They’re talking about death, without romance or fear, but as the reality of what they do.

Somehow Tony thought Steve would be judgmental or waspish. For all that Steve constantly puts himself in harm’s way, he has bouts of really irritating hypocrisy in what he demands of other people versus what he demands of himself. Tony, in his rarer moments, recognizes that same hypocrisy in himself, though he expresses it differently.

“I’m not sorry,” Tony says defensively. “For what I did.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “Are you still going on about that?”

“Yeah, well.” Tony wags a finger at a gauntlet. “Get that one, I want to see.”

+

By the third day, Tony’s mobility is much improved. Steve doesn’t show up outside his door in the morning, but he is in the pantry when Tony goes down for breakfast.

There’s a brew already waiting (regular, now), though Steve doesn’t get up while Tony fetches breakfast. There’s an actual print newspaper on the table, which Steve is browsing leisurely.

It’s a late breakfast for Steve. Natasha and Clint are definitely long gone.

“Helen asked for a last scan, and then you should be good to go,” Steve says. “I can’t say I’m comfortable with you wearing a suit again so soon, but you can use them by remote, right? How do you feel about testing that today, down in the training room? I can call Thor in, or Natasha.”

“You want to throw me back into team training?”

“It’s just an idea. _Are_ all of your suits capable of being controlled remotely?”

“Everything from the Mark VIII onwards, yeah, but maneuverability varies.”

“Really? The suits are controlled by brain impulse, aren’t they? So even if you’re not physically inside them you should be able to use them as they’re meant to be used.”

“There’s always loss of data the further you are at a remove,” Tony says. “I have algorithms to pick up the slack, but it’s not just that. My decision-making isn’t the same when I’m not inside the suit. It’s… complex.”

“Then we should definitely do some testing. Maybe not with a team dynamic yet. But it’s good to get a clearer look-see at what the difference is.”

Tony can do it without Steve. In fact, he was already planning to do it tomorrow, or the day after. An extra pair of hands would be useful, unless they’re attached to someone who’d get in his way. Steve has proven thus far that he won’t do that, but still.

“We?” Tony echoes.

Steve shrugs. “If you want.”

“I get all my suits up and running by myself, you know that.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you asking?” The coffee’s definitely kicking in. “I get the last few days, I could barely hold a wrench without pulling something, but the lattice is working, it’s healing. So why are you still asking?”

“Because I want to. If you don’t want help, that’s fine. But I can be useful and I pick things up quickly.”

When he and Steve get into one of their typical spats, Tony always knows exactly what’s going on and what’s at stake. Can’t bludgeon each other properly unless they know what they’re bludgeoning with, right? So it’s galling to look at Steve now and just _not_ know what he’s playing at.

It’s obvious, of course, that despite Steve’s heavy-leaning honesty he wasn’t telling the truth about not being bogged down by guilt. He definitely feels obligated to Tony, and all his actions derive from that obligation. What’s really confusing is Steve’s need to smokescreen that agenda, and pretend that it isn’t true. Worse yet, he’s acting as if he’s _winning_ , instead of forcibly subjecting himself to the trouble of Tony’s company.

What would be the purpose? Is it pride, or shame? Neither fits into the mental map Tony’s made of Steve in his head.

“Why are you like this?” Tony demands.

“Like what?”

“Like _this_ , like – stop that! Stop smiling! Why are you smiling!”

Steve, who does not stop smiling, says, “Because it’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“You. There is one very easy way to get me to shut up and put up. ‘I broke myself to save your hiney, Cap, this is your fault. You owe me.’ There, easy, done.”

Tony blanches.

“See,” Steve says. “You crow to the world about how amazing you are, but that’s always about the things you’ve _made_ – the things you’ve given to the world and want other people to use. You don’t talk so much about how you personally put yourself out there on the front line, taking as many close calls as you can with the rest of us. Sometimes more.”

“Those kinds of scorecards are for losers,” Tony mumbles.

“Worse yet, I think, is that you fear that if you made any fuss about what you’ve done, people would feel the need to thank you.”

“Hah!” Tony barks. “So it _is_ about that! You’re trying to _thank_ me.”

“No, Tony,” Steve says patiently. “If I wanted to, I’d just say so. But _you_ don’t want that, so I don’t.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“That might be the caffeine.”

“That’s not the…” Tony narrows his eyes. Steve’s laughing again, though it feels less like Tony’s being laughed _at_ , and more like Steve’s just enjoying… something. Being here, maybe, and dropping slightly uncomfortable truth bombs in Tony’s general vicinity.

“No scorecards,” Tony says firmly.

“No scorecards. But I’d like to make your recovery time easier in any way, if you’d let me.”

“Really.” Tony puts his coffee cup down and tries on his most threatening glower.

Steve takes it with a jovial incline of his head, as though he’s ready for anything that could come out of Tony’s mouth. He may not be pleased with whatever Tony says, but he’s ready for it. More than that, he’s _interested_ , and that’s another thing that’s been making Tony ever-so-slightly uneasy over these past few days. Since the moment Tony woke up and saw Steve in the ward with him.

It’s that same low-level consciousness of being noticed, and under terms that Tony didn’t deliberately set down as is his usual MO. (Tony likes being seen, but it has to be _his_ way.) It’s almost as though he’s been accused of something, but whatever it is, he can’t pin it down any firmer than he can pin down the calm readiness of Steve’s eyes.

Tony feels restless, uncertain. _Underserving_ , though of what he can’t be sure.

“I want to take a break,” Tony says. “A proper break. Away from here.”

“All right. Do you have a place in mind?”

“I don’t know, maybe… There’s my house out west. I’ve only been there a couple of days since it’s been done up.” It’s a random idea, but it gains plausibility the more he thinks about it. “Could laze a little, away from the office.”

“Sounds good. I suppose you’d want to go alone?”

“What, you wanna come?” When Steve makes an expression as though he’s thinking about it, Tony outright laughs. “You’re gonna take time off? You?”

“You want to drop a hellicarrier on me first?”

“Would that accomplish anything? You’d just pick up that shield and go back at it.”

Steve ducks his head sheepishly, unable to deny it point blank. For some reason this feels like a gold star achievement, and it warms Tony right down to his toes.

“You’d really go on holiday?” Tony says, curious. “For fun?”

“Oh, not for _fun_. Fun was invented in the 1960s, so I have no idea what it is.”

Tony laughs and shoves at Steve’s arm. “You’re such a dick.”

Steve’s grin is broad and slightly uneven, higher on the left side than the right. Tony’s never noticed that before. “It’s been said.”

“Okay.” Tony feels slightly light-headed. He probably needs more coffee. “You can come. Everyone should. Thor would totally be game, no idea about the leather twins, but if we get quorum then Bruce won’t have a choice.”

“That’s called peer pressure.”

“Name of my weekend band, Pressure on My Peers.” Tony joined the others for dinner yesterday, save for Thor who had other plans, but they’re likely to have a full house tonight and can figure out the rough details. “Better ask the doc if I can use the pool.”

“Does the house need to be prepped?” Steve says. “Is it okay to go there just like that?”

“Yeah, I have people. We need to let them know to stock up the kitchen with, though. And air the guest rooms. How many rooms do I have? I should look that up.”

“Need help with that?”

Tony’s getting real itchy with the _h_ word, but he’ll let it pass, just this once. Getting Steve into civvies on the west coast is an intriguing enough prospect to let way more annoying things pass. And besides, Tony is still getting used to not being able to outsource work to Pepper, who has far more important things on her plate now.

“All right,” Tony says. “Let’s call it for, say, the weekend? You ask JARVIS for the deets.”

+

Something’s going on. Tony’s hazy on the precise details, but he _is_ conscious of a slow slide towards… something. It’s something to do with Steve, specifically, who continues with the duality of pushy intensity and gentle backing off, which makes Tony feel like he’s being worked over like a lump of dough. Tony hasn’t stopped being bewildered about it, but the irritation that usually accompanies said bewilderment has been replaced by curiosity.

Tony will just have to see how it plays out.

As it is, everyone’s game for a trip out west; even Bruce doesn’t even need convincing. It takes just shy of two days to prepare, with mainly Steve and Natasha handling the planning. In between, Steve still visits Tony’s workshops, has every other meal with him, and is generally very… Steve.

On Friday, they leave together on Tony’s private plane.

Though it’s a short flight it’s still a goddamned circus, with Clint and Thor playing the shared role of the loud tourist as they explore every amenity, Bruce semi-ignoring everyone as he conquers a seat and refuses to take off his humongous headphones, and Natasha conquers the sound system to remix Russian dubstep for reasons known only to herself.

Steve, though. He settles in a chair that’s slightly forward of the craft, his face pressed almost right up against the glass. He’s flown in modern times before – he’s flown commercial, even – but he watches the view avidly and unabashedly.

What’s going on in that head of his? Tony’s wondered this before, of course, but always in a clinical, purposeful way. Steve’s important, his tactical prowess is important, and it’s only he who can keep the team together through the force of his inspirational personality. Anything more than that was obviously beyond Tony’s purview, in the way that everyone has their own personal yet vibrant mini-universe that revolves around them and only occasionally intersects with others.

He and Steve are incredible on the battlefield together. The sublime magic they’d stumbled onto during the Battle of New York was not a one-off, and in times of crisis Tony would rather have Steve at his back than anyone else, the only exception being Rhodey. But beyond the pockets of battle stress lies the memory of how their first instinct upon meeting was to read the worst of each other. By unspoken agreement they’ve tried to avoid doing that since – to look too close at each other wouldn’t do anyone any favors, so they didn’t. They don’t.

Is that it, really?

Tony finds himself moving up the aircraft, past Natasha’s scowling at the dials and Bruce’s snoring, to where Steve’s seated. He pauses before taking the chair facing Steve, and only sits when Steve lifts a shoulder a invitation.

“Anything interesting out there?” Tony says.

“Depends on your definition on the word,” Steve replies.

Tony makes himself comfortable in the plush chair. “What definition are you going with today?”

“Angles. Top-down perspective. The illusion of familiar sights being far smaller than they are in your mind.”

“Ah. The world’s bigger _and_ smaller at the same time.”

Steve huffs in amusement. “Something like that, yes.”

Steve’s in the dark grey jacket he wears sometimes when he goes out, usually at night and for casual reasons. It’s over a plain white shirt, and combined with dark blue jeans over of dark brown leather boots. Steve likes straight lines and flat colors; the most pattern Tony’s ever seen on him comes from the ties that Tony’s pretty sure that Natasha buys for him. Plain, flat, neutral.

“At least you’re not thinking of jumping out,” Tony says. “Take a flying leap over…. where are we?”

“Indiana, I think,” Steve says. “And not today. Wouldn’t want to ruin your nice plane.”

“Needs an upgrade.” Tony leans back to squint up at the bulkhead. “Haven’t looked at the travel sector for a while.”

“Oh no, you’re falling behind.”

Tony kicks out without thinking. Steve doesn’t even block it – he just moves his legs over, unruffled, while Tony’s sneaker connects with the base of his chair.

“That’s very nice,” Steve says. “Kicking an old man.”

“I have synthetic splinters all the way down my side. That beats old age.”

“Does it?”

“Sure does. Having to move at first gear is a pain in the tuckus.”

Steve hums. He looks out the window again, though it’s not clear if that’s a signal that the conversation is over. The motion draws taut the muscle of his neck, a strong line that leads down to his collarbone and the breadth of his shoulders, which are currently masked under the loose, less-than-ideally-flattering jacket.

“When you woke up,” Steve says, “after the…”

“Yeah.” Tony’s not surprised by Steve’s swinging the topic back to his recent close call.

“You thought that that was it, but it wasn’t. You woke up in pain, but still, you woke up _._ Were you glad? Relieved, I mean, to wake up.”

“Yeah, of course. Why you asking? Did you think I’d need a party for it?”

“Perhaps,” Steve says. “It can get to a point where survival is nothing more than a nice bonus.”

“Well, I can tell you that I’m not convinced that there are enough other people out there who’d pick up the slack I’ll be dropping. They exist, that’s for sure, but are they ready? I hope so, but as long as I’m still here, I’m going to do more than hope. I’m going to make it that they _are_ ready.”

“So… it’s because there’s work to do. That’s why you’re glad to still be alive.”

“It’s better than being disappointed.” Tony stiffens as soon as he says it, but nothing in Steve’s expression changes. Steve merely nods, oblivious to the fact that Tony’s screaming internally, because _of course_ he had to say that to the guy who woke up to a world that had moved on without him.

Not that Tony’s spent a lot of brain cells on the matter. Steve has friends who have that covered, Natasha and Sam especially. Steve’s tougher than Tony will ever be, and he’s always known what he wants to accomplish for the world, while Tony had to take the couple of decades out for a spin before he got kicked in the head. It’s different; they’re different.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Steve says. “You look like someone put a lemon in your mouth.”

“No, I don’t,” Tony says.

“Okay, you don’t.”

“But…” Tony pauses, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re not disappointed anymore, right?”

Steve starts in surprise. He shouldn’t, not when he brought up the damn topic in the first place. Maybe he’s surprised that Tony said it.

Steve says slowly, as though he’s not sure how it’ll land, “Most of the time.”

Right. Because Steve’s only human, too.

“Like you said,” Steve adds, “there’s lots to do. I may be old-fashioned, but I’m not irrelevant yet.”

“Lots for Captain America to do, you’re saying.”

“How is that any different from what _you_ just said?”

“Yeah, well,” Tony says, flustered, “I’ve already had more than my fair share of days doing stupid shit. I’m just catching up, that’s all.”

“Are you telling me that I’ve never done stupid shit?”

“It’s – it’s not…” Tony trails off. Steve’s smile should be more annoying than it is. “Hey, you wanna fly this thing?”

“What?”

“Happy won’t mind.” Tony stands up, and gestures impatiently for Steve to follow. But instead of getting up, Steve merely stares at him dubiously, which leaves Tony no choice but to grab his arm and tug. Just a light tug is enough, because Steve won’t let Tony pull a muscle in his current state. “Come on, we don’t have much time, otherwise all you can do is land.”

“Steve doesn’t have a license,” Natasha calls out.

“If Steve can fly a Quinjet, he can fly a goddamned 737,” Tony yells back, at the same time as he’s shoving Steve forward.

“What I mean is, it’s _illegal_.” Natasha’s still grinning when they disappear into the cockpit.

Steve, of course, is perfectly capable of flying and landing the plane, just as Tony knew he was. As for Happy, he just has the tiniest of heart attacks, which is almost like the old days really.

+

The new Malibu house takes after the old one only in the broadest of strokes. Multiple entrances, a large lounging area that bleeds into dining and kitchen, a subtle route upstairs, a subtler route downstairs, and other rooms branching off from all of the above. Tony had final say and did touch-ups, of course, but in terms of effort, most of the credit goes to JARVIS, with honorable mentions to Pepper and Rhodey.

It would probably feel weirder to host the Avengers in the old house, but the new one is almost as unfamiliar to Tony as it is to them, so in a way he gets to explore it through their eyes.

“Pool!” Clint yells. It’s the first thing he says as soon as they spill out of the car, not that the pool is even visible from this level. Maybe he can smell the chlorine.

“But there’s an ocean,” Thor says. “It’s right there, yonder.”

“Tony has a private beach,” Bruce says.

“I never promised a beach,” Tony says. “Why would you mention a beach?”

“Do you _not_ have a private beach?” Bruce says. “Why would you have a house next to the ocean if not for the beach?”

“The view,” Natasha says. “And the challenge of building on a sheer stone cliff.”

“True,” Tony admits. “But there is a beach.”

Bruce nods. “Of course there is.”

Once inside it’s every Avenger for themselves. The group spread out in an obnoxiously loud hunt for the room that’s to be theirs for the next few days, and Tony watches them go in amusement. It’s only when Tony turns for the stairs that he realizes that Steve hasn’t joined them.

Steve’s detoured to the stretch of wall leading down from the front doors, and is studying the paintings hung there. Most of them are Pepper’s choice, and Steve goes from one to the other slowly, then to the bookshelves that line one side of the sunken lounge area. There’s a proper library elsewhere, but this bookshelf is more for show, with large coffee table books and glossy periodicals. Behind Steve, the lounge’s long window has an unencumbered view: blue all the way to the horizon. The windows are open for now, letting in the fresh air for a house that needs it.

Steve’s in no rush. He doesn’t even seem to realize that Tony’s watching him, so focused is he on reading the titles. As he goes, he runs a fingertip along the length of the mahogany shelf. A man at leisure, enraptured.

Tony clears his throat. “You’re probably gonna get stuck with the last room.”

Steve looks up. “I’m sure I can rough it.” He gestures to the window, with the sharp drop beyond. “How much of the old house is still down there?”

“If I had my way, most of it. Pepper wouldn’t allow that, of course. A lot of the structural elements could be salvaged.”

“I was thinking more about your things.”

“I got the bots out.” Tony shrugs. “The rest is just stuff.”

“Guess so.” The late afternoon sunlight makes Steve’s eyes bluer, somehow. Or maybe it’s a bunch of elements working in tandem: sunlight, open, sea breeze – they soften Steve all over, as though Tony’s seeing him for the first time through glasses that aren’t working quite right. If Tony holds his breath, the moment will stretch, and he can keep looking.

Or Steve will break the moment by standing up straight and looking around. “I can explore all I like, right?”

“Nothing interesting, though.”

“If you say so.”

For a brief, panicked moment, Tony considers saying that Steve shouldn’t unfairly judge anything he finds, because Tony’s touch is barely in this house as it is, and he can count on his hands the number of days he’s spent here. But Steve already knows all of that. Steve’s just looking, and he means nothing by it.

Maybe Tony wants to give him something _to_ look at, instead of this empty unlived-in place.

“Wait, there’s…” Tony can’t run yet, but he does a light quickstep to the bookshelf. There should be at least one copy of – yes. “You do read fantasy, right? Fairytales, that kind of thing? Short stories should be good for some weekend light reading. It’s pretty intense in places, and not family-friendly but I have been informed you’re okay with that.”

“Thank you.” It’s just a book, but Steve takes it carefully, and eagerly reads the blurb before he’s even turned it the right way round. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”

“And if you don’t, you’ll just be very polite about it.”

“Maybe. I might surprise you.”

“Yeah,” Tony says weakly. He remembers his suitcase, and restarts his journey upstairs. “See you at dinner!”

Steve hums a distracted reply.

+

Tony’s supposed to be taking things easy-ish, so the first night is spent chilling, eating, and watching a couple of shows that Thor insists that his friends check out because they are ‘deeply informative about the truth of the modern human mind’. Steve and Clint break in Tony’s new pool table, Bruce cooks, and Tony falls asleep on the couch before it’s time to christen into the tubs of ice-cream Natasha ordered.

The next morning, they go down to the beach. Tony didn’t use it much in the old days, because there were much better spots just a little further up, and this patch is too narrow and the sand not picturesque. But the team insists, so down the elevator they go (“Of course you have a freaking elevator,” Clint says).

Clint charges into the ocean first, with Natasha close behind. Steve jogs in place for a few beats before following. As for Thor, he carefully lays a towel on the sand and puts Mjolnir on it before marching towards the waterline.

Tony and Bruce stay on the beach, lying together on an extra-large towel. Bruce is enjoying himself in his typically quiet way – armed with sunscreen, sunglasses and a pair of shockingly purple swim trunks. He brought his headphones with him, but has opted not to use them for the moment.

“Does it count as a holiday if I’m spending it with the exact same people I work with?” Tony says.

“Yes,” Bruce answers.

Tony looks at him, but Bruce’s eyes are shut behind his sunglasses. “That it? That’s all I get?”

“Is anyone working?” Bruce says. Out in the water, Natasha and Steve seem to be working together to drown Thor, who’s laughing. “No. Ergo, it is a holiday.”

“But normal people take holidays to get away from the people they work with.”

“You know a lot about normal people, Tony?”

“Did you skin Barney for those trunks?”

Bruce pats Tony’s arm in such a way as to be comforting and condescending at the same time. “Relax. You’re not fulfilling mission objectives if you don’t relax.”

Tony resolves to do no such thing, just to be petty. For at least half an hour, anyway, or until Bruce falls asleep.

He looks out at the Baywatch team. Natasha’s trying to climb onto Clint’s shoulders now, while Thor and Steve have paddled a little ways out to a crop of rocks on the far side. Tony already warned them about the rocks, but they know what they’re doing.

Tony could be out there, but he needs to not strain himself. Even so, he’s not sure if he would join them if he _didn’t_ need to not strain himself. His eye keeps drifting to Steve, glistening and broad even when standing right next to Thor. His hair’s plastered to his head and his eyes twinkle even from a distance, and it makes Tony restless, rather like the way he gets when someone says something embarrassingly wrong and Tony needs to offer an obnoxiously loud correction.

But Steve’s not doing anything _wrong._ He’s just enjoying himself. Tony wants Steve to enjoy himself.

He really does.

So, he should be content that Steve’s having a good time, right? He should. Yet the itch persists and he feels inadequate, as if he isn’t doing enough, though hell if he knows what it is he should be doing in the first place. Maybe he’s feeling this way because everyone else is having a rollickin’ good time and he’s sitting out here, having no part in the reason that Steve’s laughing.

That’s never mattered to Tony before.

It never mattered like _this_ , anyway. Tony’s aware that in the early days of their knowing each other, a hefty chunk of his discomfiture with Steve came from ye olde childhood-stemmed yearning for Captain America’s approval; a shadowy reprise of Howard Stark that he thought long gone. But Tony moved past that, because Steve is both more and less than his legendary moniker – he’s just a man, a teammate, a friend, and flawed and human for all of the above.

Tony can’t be regressing. It’d be fucking horrible if he were, especially when Steve’s made it clear – these past few days most of all – that Tony never had anything to prove to him.

But the pull insists. It compels Tony to stand up. He tests his right leg, then his left, and sets a hand over his eyes to watch Thor backflip off a rock. Steve’s standing on his own rock and shaking his head, while Clint’s paddling over to join them.

“You’re in my sun,” Bruce says.

Tony’s wearing an oversized Hawaiian shirt, which he now takes off and throws at Bruce. While Bruce sighs loudly, Tony jumps at the feel of wind on his chest, and realizes he hasn’t been outside shirtless since before he got the arc reactor.

He’s not going to feel self-conscious about that now, though. The scars at his sternum are as smooth as money can buy, plus he’s still hot, which is the really important thing. He’s certainly still enough of an attention whore about it that he casually glances up to see if anyone’s watching.

Unfortunately, no one is. Steve’s disappeared into the water, Thor’s laughing uproariously, and Clint’s scrabbling his way up onto a rock.

“My ass still looks great, though, right?” Tony turns back to Bruce, who doesn’t respond. “Hey, six Ph.Ds.”

“Yes, Tony, your ass still looks great.”

“Don’t just say that to shut me up. _Look_ at it.”

Bruce pulls down his shades to peer at him. “Why are you like this?”

Tony makes a face at Bruce, though internally he can acknowledge that it is a decent question, and one he wishes he knew the answer to. He knows a shitload of things but apparently not whatever it is that’s compelling him to now tiptoe towards the waterline when it’s the cooler side of summer, a time when he’d usually much rather be lounging under the sun.

He’s soaked up to his swim shorts when an approaching bump in the water reveals itself to be Steve, who lifts himself from a swimming to a standing position. Steve shakes his head; dog-like, except dogs don’t get rivulets of water droplets cascading down their bare-skinned chests. “It’s not bad once you’re in.”

“That’s what she said,” Tony mutters.

“Hey, Steve!” Bruce calls out. “Can you just tell Tony that his ass looks great.”

“Uh.” Steve sinks down, crouching low enough that the ocean surface is up to his neck. “Well.”

“Ignore him.” Tony hisses when the water sluices up his stomach. “He’s just being anti-social.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve says easily. “And your ass always looks great.”

“Can you just make sure I don’t step into a sinkhole and die?” Tony says. “That would be much more useful.”

“No one’s making you come in.” Steve steps closer through a slosh of waves, and Tony feels a hand brush against his underneath the surface, as though making sure that Tony has control of his balance. “But I will do my best to make sure you don’t step into a sinkhole and die. Though I’m probably less useful in protecting you from Natasha.”

“Where the hell is she?”

“You really want to ask?”

“You’re right, what was I thinking.” Tony lets out an undignified wail as he reaches his limit – water up to his collarbones. “If I feel her touch my ankles, I _will_ scream.”

“All the better for me to come to your rescue.”

“You just said you’re _less_ useful.”

“In protecting you,” Steve says. “Avenging you? That I can do.”

“Wow. Great.” They’re close enough that Tony could touch him if he wanted, and learn how Steve’s saltwater-damp neck would feel underneath his palms. “Actually, this is not bad. My back’s appreciating it.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s whole face lights up, and it’s – wow. It’s a lot of wow. “Wanna make a circuit to the rocks? I’ll spot you.”

“Aren’t you busy trying to sit on Thor’s head?”

“I’ve watched _Jaws_ ,” Steve says. “I could chase you and hum the theme song.”

Tony barks a laugh. He’s so startled by his own reaction that he quickly sinks down, snagging a quick breath before he lets water rush up to the bridge of his nose. Steve mirrors him, albeit with more grace. Mirth pulls at Steve’s eyes, and it is irresistible.

Tony doesn’t take the invitation for a lap, but he does tip toe/stroke towards Thor and Clint, and Steve follows him. If there’s any swimming done over the rest of the morning, it’s by the loosest definition of the term, interspersed as it is with yelling and splashing and unnecessary leaps off rocks, plus Natasha darting in and out like the shark Steve can only pretend to be. It gets worse when Bruce bids the shore farewell and dives in to join them, proving himself to be the most treacherous Avenger of them all.

+

The total lack of urgency stays with Tony through a late lunch and a long afternoon nap while the others amuse themselves. Although there is a workshop in the basement and JARVIS is connected to the tower’s servers, it’s been more than twenty-four hours since Tony checked in with his projects, and he’s fine with that.

Dinner is held on the patio outside, with the evening’s cooks huddled around the grill. Tony stretches out on a deck chair, hands folded behind his head. Natasha’s similarly content to not be involved in the cooking, and is on the next chair over strumming a guitar she must’ve found somewhere in the house. Sometime between lunch and evening, she’d painted her nails silver and purple.

“Did you have to go undercover as a bass player one time or what?” Tony says.

“SHIELD purged us of all hobbies when we signed up,” Natasha says. “But it pays to keep ‘em up.”

Tony laughs. “Right.”

With Natasha’s smooth plucking as background, Tony lets his attention wander to the four grown men currently battling over a grill. Well, three men are battling over a grill while Steve stands there holding the salad bowl with mild-mannered impatience. Steve could, of course, intervene and make the process run smoothly, but he’s on a break, too, isn’t he? So he lets them go at it, willing to wait.

Natasha’s tune drifts into something familiar. Tony realizes, to his surprise, that she’s singing quietly, the words slipping in and out of the edge of hearing, “…let me say since; since we’ve been together…”

The Al Green tune is soothing in its familiarity. Tony hums along, auditory memory fills in every other word, allowing him join in: “Let me be the one you come running to; I’ll never be untrue…”

Natasha’s voice is soft, with the mild hoarseness of being somewhat out of practice. Tony’s not sure if she means to be heard at all, but she tolerates him fumbling with the words that drop from her lips as easily as the strumming of her fingers. Tony’s throat appreciates the low-level exercise, anyway.

The end of the song is marked with a flourish, but Natasha immediately moves into another, which is up-tempo and unfamiliar.

Tony turns to take his glass of water from the nearby table, and in doing so realizes that Steve is looking at him. The salad bowl is still in Steve’s hands, but he’s no longer paying attention to the attempted cooks. While prickles may rise all over Tony’s skin, Steve seems to have no qualms at having been caught out. His gaze is unflinching and fascinated. He smiles.

(Tony wanted Steve to look, right? Steve’s doing that now, so that should be good, right?)

“If you’re going into the house, get more ice,” Natasha says, without a single pause in the dance of her fingers.

Tony knows, with a futurist’s clarity, that if he stood up right now and went into the house, Steve would follow him. He doesn’t know why Steve would do it, for that is the mystery tied to another question that’s been unanswered. Or, at least, it has not been answered properly in a very Steve-like way.

It made sense for Steve to wanting to look out for Tony while he was at the steepest point of recovery. It also made sense for Steve to make himself available in new ways after a teammate’s close call.

But _this_ part of Steve, with his quiet thoughtfulness that seem to be focused on Tony – there’s no sense here at all. Whatever evolved type of friendship it is that Steve’s after, it shouldn’t make Tony feel like he’s waiting for a chandelier to come crashing over his head.

“How much ice?” Tony says.

“Take the bucket,” Natasha says.

While the smell of the grill being put to work finally fills the air, Tony gets up and makes his way to the house. He follows the path of stepping stones that go all the way up to the doors, and once in the kitchen makes a beeline for the freezer.

Tony’s three scoops in when he hears the sliding door open and shut.

“Let me do that,” Steve says.

“Why?” Tony says.

“It’ll get heavy quick. I know you can lift—”

“I mean, _why_.” Tony puts the partially-filled bucket on the counter and turns to Steve. Who has that little furrow of concern between his eyebrows – a sight that used to make Tony wary, but now is on the comforting side of familiar. He knew Steve would come, and he has. “I can handle this, and I know you know I can handle this.”

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to do it by yourself.”

“No. That’s you wiggling again.” Tony takes a deep breath. “No scorecards.”

Steve nods slowly. “No scorecards.”

“Then why. You’re not doing this for anyone else.”

“That’s not—”

“C’mon, Steve, I got eyes,” Tony says. “Give me a straight answer for once.”

“I—I don’t…” Steve’s shoulders rise up, awkwardness drawing them tight. He’s surprised that Tony’s asking directly instead of just letting it be another unstudied thread in the clumsy, strange, and sometimes painful tapestry of ways that they relate to each other. Tony _would_ normally let it pass without scrutiny, but it seems time for normal to be redefined.

“As far as you knew,” Steve says hesitantly, “you were about to die. But the last thing you said was that everything would be okay. You wanted _me_ to know that everything would be okay. You weren’t thinking about yourself, at the last. That’s where your priorities were.”

“I’ve had people die in front of me before, for my sake. So I know what it’s like to be on the other side.”

“So do I.”

“What, are we having a competition?”

“No competition. I just had a moment of clarity – _that’s_ who you are, at the heart of it. And that someone is a friend and teammate I hadn’t spent much time with, before. I’m sorry about that.” Tony’s mouth opens, indignant at receiving an apology that he was in no way fishing for, but Steve presses on as if it’s nothing: “It’s on me. I’d like to fix it, even if just in some small way.”

On the one hand, this pisses Tony off. How dare Steve be helpful and kind and make _Tony_ feel bad for his being helpful and kind?

On the other hand, Tony has a sudden, crystal clear flashback of himself, twenty years younger and stuttering his way through his friendship with Rhodey, and he gets it. He sees Steve of the past few days, listening and observing intently, and through said observations reaching out in his own way.

“Being helpful isn’t all you’re good for, you know,” Tony says.

Steve accepts the statement with a smile and a nod, but it’s – wrong. It’s fond and polite, but has an underlying implication that Tony recognizes all too well: _I appreciate that you believe that_.

“Hey, no.” Tony grabs Steve’s forearm. His heart beats loudly with frustration and urgency, because it’s vital that he gets this part right. “That isn’t all there is to you. I get it, that it feels that way sometimes – Rhodey used to tell me over and over that I don’t have to give people shit to make them like me, so it’s – yeah. _You_ don’t need to do that, we can find other – there are other ways, okay?”

Steve nods slowly. He’s not there yet, but he will be. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Tony exhales loudly, relief washing over him. He smiles, and Steve smiles back, and this is what he wanted. Steve’s a little less of a mystery, and Tony has something new and concrete to figure out. Tony does love his projects. “You can carry the ice, though.”

Steve peers into the bucket. “Let’s get a few more scoops.”

“Yeah, about two-thirds should be enough.” Tony hangs back while Steve opens the freezer and gets the ice. He watches the pull of muscle across Steve’s shoulders and back as he moves, and thinks about how this conversation couldn’t have happened a month ago, or a week ago. Steve apologized – unnecessarily, by the way – but that previous status quo wasn’t just on Steve. It was on both of them.

Tony says, “You’re really pushy, even when you’re trying to be nice.”

“I suppose so.” Steve’s body is looser now, and his smile easier. “Unfortunately, that’s what it takes, when it comes to you.”

“I could be offended, but instead I choose to respect your opinion.”

“You say you’re amazing all the time,” Steve points out. “How am I supposed to tell you that _I_ think you’re amazing?”

“Well,” Tony says with a cough, “I wouldn’t know how to hear it, even if you tried.”

“See. That’s how it is.”

“I don’t know, you could’ve found a way.” Tony grins, teasing, while Steve shakes his head in amusement. “You’re a smart guy. You’d figure out a way to be sneakier about it that _doesn’t_ look like you have a massive crush on me, because that’s just embarrassing.”

Steve laughs. “No, it’s not embarrassing.” He puts the last scoop of ice into the bucket and closes the freezer. “All right, that’s the ice. Is there anything else?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He stares at Steve, confused, while Steve just stares back. “What…?”

“Is there anything else you came in to get?” Steve says.

“No, that—the…” Tony realizes that Steve, though his expression hasn’t wavered, has stopped breathing. “What does that—”

“Joke.” Steve’s voice is calm but there’s color rising up the back of his neck. “We do that.”

They do. But there’s always context to take into account – especially the state of their relationship at any given moment, and now, Tony’s awareness of Steve’s agenda, which glows bright and warm in everything he does. But that agenda doesn’t have to include _this_.

“Obviously it’s ridiculous for me to… for you,” Steve says. “Obviously.”

Tony’s stumbled onto something. Completely by accident, but this extra set of data, if at all accurate, would shift fucking reality. Steve is flustered, fumbling, and as close to panicking that Tony’s ever seen him _ever_. Tony stares, enthralled. Did he do this?

“The ice,” Steve says, a little plaintively. “Do we need napkins?”

Tony kisses him. He doesn’t consciously decide to, or even become aware if it’s something that he wants. He does it because Steve’s standing there looking kissable and worried and on the verge of grabbing the bucket to use it as a shield, and the action makes sense. Pressing his mouth to Steve’s in search of confirmation makes sense.

Steve’s lips are soft and warm. They part against his, and there’s a soft smacking sound when Tony pulls back.

This is unexpected. Tony’s still not sure why he did that, because liking Steve isn’t the same as _liking_ Steve, and wanting Steve to see him isn’t the same as wanting Steve to _see_ him. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to sneak up on a person, especially someone like Tony.

Steve swallows. “No napkins, then?”

Why is Steve talking about napkins? Oh, he’s talking about napkins because he can see Tony’s confusion. An impulsive kiss without intent doesn’t mean anything, and Steve will roll with it the way he’s learned to roll with everything else.

“No.” Tony has both hands on Steve’s forearms now, and he claws his way up to Steve’s shoulders, where he digs his fingers into the cloth to cling on. “ _No._ ”

“Tony,” Steve says softly.

“No.” Tony winds his hands around Steve’s shoulders, firmly enough that Steve can’t shake him off. Steve’s face twists uncertainly at Tony’s closeness, and that won’t do at all.

Steve’s chest is a long, solid line of heat along Tony’s front. His shoulders are a broad clothesline of muscle for Tony to hang his arms on. When Steve’s gaze drops to Tony’s mouth, it brings his eyelashes sweeping down in a fine curtain over the blue of his eyes.

“Holy shit,” Tony exclaims. “You _like_ me.”

“I did say that I think you’re amazing,” Steve says slowly, with an unsure lilt at the end.

Here’s the pull that Tony’s been feeling, now tugged and towed to its natural conclusion. Want rises in Tony, sharp and inarguable in its focus, shocking him into breathlessness. When he kisses Steve again, it’s with full purpose, open-mouthed and desperate.

This time, after a long uncertain beat, Steve kisses back. Carefully at first, until one second leads into the next and Tony doesn’t pull away. A pleased hum makes Steve’s chest rumble, and his confidence grows. His lips slide warm and curious over Tony’s, and his tongue darts in to taste the seam of Tony’s mouth. Steve’s kisses are sweet and slow, and in turn they make Tony slow down, too.

 _There’s no rush_ , Steve seems to be saying. There’s no need for panic or fear, and especially the fear of being misunderstood. Steve is comfortable in wanting Tony because he’d found his way here first; Tony’s only anxious because he’d been a step behind. Not anymore.

They kiss until Tony’s lips are tender. They kiss until Steve’s confident enough to finally touch Tony – his broad palms petting inquisitively over Tony’s waist and hips, making him shiver pleasantly.

The route they took to get here may be confusing, but actually _being_ here is not. It feels right, and Tony is calm.

It’s not clear who pulls away first. Breathing’s important, but Tony also wants to look at Steve’s face, and how it’s made soft and hopeful, with a rawness that Steve tries to hide. Tony puts a hand on Steve’s cheek, and Steve turns to nuzzle it eagerly.

“I don’t want this to change what we’re doing,” Steve says. “Being an Avenger is important to both of us.”

“Okay,” Tony says.

Steve frowns. “All right, we don’t need to talk about that just yet—”

“No, it’s the perfect time—”

“You look drunk, Tony.”

“Do I? Hmm.” Tony realizes that he’s hooked his thumb into Steve’s belt, and is stroking up and down in the tight space between leather and Steve’s hip. Fortunately, Steve doesn’t seem to mind. “Don’t think I can’t tell that that’s the opposite of a complaint. You like that you can kiss me stupid.” When more color rises in Steve’s cheeks, Tony grins and put both hands on Steve’s belt, tugging him close enough that their chests brush. “Life would be so much easier if you just admitted your shortcomings.”

“Ah,” Steve says. “So this is what you’re like.”

“When I’m aggressively flirting with someone? Yes. Welcome to the Tony Stark Experience, Fastpass, keep all hands inside the vehicle. I’m thinking about kicking everyone else out of the house.”

“No, Tony.”

“I said _thinking_ , not that I’d actually do it.”

Steve swallows. “All right, I did think of that, too.”

“Hah!” That admission deserves a kiss. Tony rises on his feet, and presses his mouth quick, bold and brief against Steve’s. Steve makes a sound into the gift – a wistful sigh that rises from high in his chest.

“You…” Steve’s eyes rove disbelievingly over Tony’s face. “You really want…” _Me_ , he can’t seem to say.

“Yeah.” Tony’s still feeling somewhat dazed, but there’s no doubt about that whatsoever. “I’m as surprised as you, to be honest. But it’s… yeah.”

Steve may not know how to say that he thinks Tony’s amazing and be believed for it, but Tony doesn’t know how to say that he doesn’t deserve the attention Steve’s decided to give him these past days but by _God_ it’s been wonderful, even when Tony didn’t think he wanted it. Tony’s had too many years being coddled and swaddled that it no longer feels right to want to be taken care of, except maybe… _maybe._

“We can talk about this later,” Steve says.

“Ice?” Tony ventures.

“Ice. And I’m hungry.”

“The super soldier engine never rests.”

They go back outside together, Steve carrying the bucket of ice and Tony with his hands in his pockets. They don’t talk, though that’s more from a mutual need to process than a lack of anything to say.

It’s surreal to rejoin the others with his mouth still tingling from Steve’s kisses. Tony returns to his deck chair and Steve to the grill, though by now Thor’s sitting with Natasha and learning from her how to play the guitar. The world seems to have taken on a slightly dreamy haze, but Tony recognizes that as a symptom of said world having revealed another of its secrets.

“There are too few strings,” Thor says to Natasha. “Your hands are small, of course it’s easy for you to play.”

“No shame in it, Thor,” Natasha replies. “Plenty of men don’t have the finesse for it.”

“That is indeed the problem, seeing as that I’m a god, and not a man,” Thor says. “Hello Stark, did you have trouble fetching the ice?”

“Hey, don’t break the strings.” Natasha loops a hand around Thor’s neck to yank him closer, and he takes the handling with an amiable grin. “Focus.”

“There’s the piano, too,” Tony says. “I haven’t heard anyone mess around with that yet.”

“Ah yes, perhaps I would have more luck messing around with a piano,” Thor says thoughtfully.

“Why’d you have to put that idea in his head?” Natasha says.

“First come first served!” Bruce yells from the grill.

Natasha and Steve get up, but Tony stays where he is, unhurried. He watches as Steve brings his meal to the unused deck chair next to Thor, his plate piled high with potatoes and steak. When it comes to Steve at mealtime, the trick he uses is to never rush through his food – he eats with the casualness of a man distracted by a snack, but with the twist that he keeps going. And going, and going. He’s almost always the first to start and the last to finish, yet he maintains an illusion of not scarfing through everything in sight and coming back up for thirds and fourths.

This is information that Tony already knows, and did not think important before. It is important now, and if he focuses on amassing even more information of that sort, he’ll be able to float high above his own anxieties – his own lack of relationship expertise, the dangers inherent of relationship while doing what they do, and the possibility one day disappointing Steve as the worst of his fears. Tony _could_ think of all of that, but wouldn’t it be more fun to figure Steve out as a person – the nitty and the gritty, with the fears and wants and kinks all on top of each other?

Wouldn’t it be more fun to find ways that Tony can take care of Steve in return?

Tony gets up from his seat and takes a plate of his own. But when he returns, it’s to squeeze into a spot on Steve’s deck chair, the limited space meaning that his hip and thigh brushes right up against Steve’s.

Steve startles a little, eyes wide where they flicker towards Tony and back to his food. But in the seconds that follow – while Tony pokes at the medallions on his plate – Steve relaxes and resumes eating.

“So many calories to recover,” Tony says. “I crashed so hard after that swim.”

“You’ll probably crash again if you eat like that,” Steve says. “That wasn’t even proper swimming.”

“Not ‘proper swimming’,” Tony scoffs. “What are you, the swim police? I bet you didn’t even have formal swim training.”

Steve laughs faintly, and puts another forkful of roast potato in his mouth.

“How did you learn to swim, though?” Tony says. “Must’ve been after you got the serum because you wouldn’t have the strength, right?”

“You’re wrong, but it’s boring, it was just…” Steve shrugs.

Tony stares at the side of Steve’s head, until Steve realizes his meaning and relents with a self-conscious cough.

“Well…” Steve starts, Tony listens.

And for good measure, once Tony’s finished with his plate, he puts it aside and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post!](https://no-gorms.tumblr.com/post/627331740884729856/here-have-a-fic-how-to-win-affection-without)
> 
> Many thanks to flyingcatstiel for the edits, any remaining errors are my own, feel free to let me know in the comments on via my tumblr.


End file.
